Don't cry for me, Argentina

I used the bathroom the same number of times I cried during my 22-hour trip to Argentina.  Please, let me explain.

My trip started at 5am with a quick shower and no time to rethink my packing decisions (I’ll spare you the details). My pseudo parents, Sally and Jorge*, drove me to the airport and helped me through the check-in process. The customer service agent questioned my ticket, noticing the return date was beyond the legally allowed 3-month visa. I froze, fearing that this powerful woman was sure to turn me away (just to clarify, my friend told me about this obstacle, even providing me a script, but I was still caught off guard).

If anyone knows me well (and I assume the only people reading this are a.) close friends and family concerned about my well-being [nope, not pregnant yet] and b.) a few technologically incompetent folks who accidentally stumbled across this blog) they know how quickly my mental/verbal capacity deteriorates when I’m nervous and think too hard.

Somehow, without crying, I managed to convince her that I planned on traveling around the continent and would not overstay my welcome in Argentina. It worked!  After saying goodbye to Nicole and Greg** and shedding a few tears (98% sadness, 5% fear/embarrassment from the previous encounter), I headed through security, one step closer to life in Argentina. 

NATURAL BREAK—if you need to, take a nap, grab a beer, enjoy a brisk walk. Or do all at the same time!

If you’ve ever flown on an airplane you should be familiar with the boarding process. This is the second time I cried. When a customer service agent (what’s with these guys?!) kindly asked passengers to check their luggage I willingly, nay, selflessly volunteered. Immediately after, they began calling passengers to board. In all the (my) confusion, I headed to the gate with the Premier passengers (AKA, the crème de la crème of human species). I gave the flight lady my ticket and she promptly scolded me saying, “No, you don’t belong here. You must wait until you’re called. Stand away from me, filthy animal.”  Yeah, she said that. Really.  So I stood a few feet away and squinted away tears, feigning extreme interest in the carpet.

Flash forward 4 ½ hours to the D.C. International airport for a 6-hour layover. I scrambled to eat a substantially fiber loaded meal and drink as much water as humanly possible. I had 5 hours to flush the contents of my stomach and bladder so as to avoid the airplane bathroom.  Here’s a little secret few people know about me (don’t tell anyone!): I have low-level Parcopresis (not to be confused with Paruresis—those guys are weirdos).

Let me be clear, I can use the bathroom in public, but not if I can’t blame unpleasant noises and/or (“and/or”, who am I kidding?) odors on unsuspecting victims or hide in the stall until I can make a quick escape. You just can’t do that on a plane. I can see it now: judging eyes follow me as I walk to the rear of the plane—I might as well be walking the Green Mile.  Hands cover scrunched noses as I trail toilet smell back to my seat. Ok maybe it’s not that extreme…but I didn’t want to chance it. 

Flash forward 5 ½ hours: mission accomplished.

I boarded the plane and quickly found my seat (i.e., waited patiently while passengers struggled to lift their luggage into the overhead compartments).  As we took off, I leaned forward in my seat noticing how beautifully the city lights beamed from below. It was a wonderland of sparkling brill--@#%@?!?!?!  My poetic thoughts (my attempts at poetic thought) were interrupted abruptly by the man in front of me slamming his seat into my face. I leaned back, stifling my scream. I held my face and silently cried. It hurt a lot.

Flash forward 10 hours. I successfully sat in my seat for the entire flight!  My legs felt like porcupine butter, but at least I didn’t’ have to deal with those eyes….those staring eyes.

As I stood in line for customs, I had the pleasure of listening to a fellow American complain about the line, the entrance fee, the heat, the country, and how inconsiderate the customs process was (“I mean, really, we’re going to spend money in their country. The least they could do is make our first experience with them more pleasant”). She makes a very compelling argument. I debated kicking her or telling one of the customs employees she was carrying illegal paraphernalia. No. I bit my tongue and held my leg in place.

Flash forward 1 hour. I see Ali and Ivan!  Tears of relief!! Bienvenidos a Argentina!!

*Names changed to protect the innocent.

**I mean Sally and Jorge.